TO MRS. B——, AT BRISTOL HOT WELLS
Tho’ nought, amid these darkened groves,
But various groups of death appear,
Scar’d at the sight, tho’ fly the Loves,
And Sickness saddens all the year,
Yet, Clara, where you deign to stay,
Your sense and manners charm us so,
E’en sick’ning Sorrow’s self looks gay,
And smiles amid the wreck of woe.
LINES
TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH,
UPON THE PRINTS
From her beautiful Drawings of the Birth and Triumph of Cupid.
Once, for a palace, Painting left her grove,
And taught her royal fav’rite’s hand to trace
A beauteous maiden’s tale of little Love,
His silken wings, soft limbs, and laughing face!
Then Nature wept o’er each expressive line,
To think the sweet creation so confin’d,
That such a boy, so fair, and so divine,
Was but the playful prattler of her mind;
And had he near the royal easel flown,
And seen the features of this mimic brother,
He would have known the portrait for his own,
And claim’d the beauteous painter for his mother.
EPITAPH
TO THE MEMORY OF A WORTHY MAN,
THE REV. MR. SLEEP,
CURATE OF KINGSWEAR CHURCH, DEVON,
Whose devotional Elocution was remarkably impregnated with soporific Qualities.
Reader! since Parson Sleep is gone,
And lies beneath yon humble stone,
Whene’er to Kingswear Church we go,
Holy the sabbath-day to keep
(Indeed ’tis right it should be so),
We never more shall go to sleep.